


Time for Second Guesses

by hbdtotheground



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, Ed is an emotionally illiterate idiot, Ed takes matters into his own hands, Ed's slow burn, Episode: s05e11 They Did What?, Feelings Realization, Fix-It, He'll get there eventually, Just truly the worst, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Or not, Oswald's along for the ride, emotional whiplash, flashbacks for days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbdtotheground/pseuds/hbdtotheground
Summary: Ed throws him a brief glance over his shoulder, baring his teeth in a terse smile. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say afternoon; you've been unconscious for the better part of an hour.""I imagine you had something to do with that," Oswald replies lightly, though there's an edge to his voice that he can't conceal. He raises a hand and runs his fingers along the left side of his neck, immediately locating a tender spot where a needle had undoubtedly pierced his skin. "Please explain to me, Edward, why the last decision I had made was to stay and fight for Gotham and yet here I am, waking up underwater and watching you play some kind of life-sized arcade game with our lives."With Gotham on the brink of destruction and Oswald determined to join it, Ed makes a split-second decision on the pier.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 24
Kudos: 125





	1. Memories that I'd black out if you were mine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! Let me first preface this story by confessing the last time I'd written fanfiction was something like 12 years ago, and AO3 is also a brand new platform to me (long time lurker, first time user). There is just something about these two characters that utterly destroys me, so HERE I AM. As a note, everything is written on Notepad with the occasional cat stepping over my keyboard, so please excuse any typos or misspellings and definitely feel free to reach out with any feedback or notes.

_"Can we really be so cavalier about the destruction of Gotham?"_

Oswald is floating. His eyes are closed, he knows this, but there are images playing beneath his eyelids. He's staring up at Ed, fifteen feet tall and resplendent in his emerald suit. A black collared shirt, black leather gloves, black bowler hat and black polished dress shoes complete the rest of his ensemble.

_"Hnnng, damn it!"_

Ed is in front of him now, mere steps away. He notices with vague fondness that the man's tie is accented with a deep purple that should have clashed with the color of his suit, but like all things Edward Nygma, it makes sense.

_"This is my city and I'll be damned if I let those bastards take it."_

Now Oswald is bobbing, undulating lazily, calmly. It is in stark contrast to the memory, to the urgency of the moment that plays like a movie in his mind. He knows something isn't right, but his body is heavy and his mind is groggy and his eyelids are pulsing erratically as he tries to lift them.

There is a snuffing noise to his right followed by a hot exhale on his cheek that he recognizes as the four-legged Edward. So he must be lying down.

_"Very well. I'm going to follow my heart."_

_"Oswald! You have been down this road before."_ Ed's voice is gentler than he is used to and it makes him uncomfortable. He tries to convince himself that the words unnerve him more than the tone. _"Following your heart has never worked out for you."_

With a start, Oswald bolts upward, his eyes snapping open. He takes just a moment to take in his surroundings—silver, steel, domed above his head—before his gaze falls upon the back of Ed's head. With his back to him, Oswald can see tension in his spine and the rigidness of his slim shoulders. He appears to be concentrated on a wall of monitors and switches in front of him, flicking methodically at the switchboard and glancing between curved green lines on a screen above him to a murky video feed on a screen to his right.

There is a sudden beeping as a green dot appears on the first screen, dead center, and Ed deftly moves a lever with his right hand. There is a loud groaning that fills the space and Oswald winces both at the sudden sound and the lurch he feels in his stomach as the vessel that surrounds them is steered to the right. After a long moment, the trilling subsides and Oswald's eye is drawn to the video feed where the image of what he assumes has to be a mine glides across the screen, harmless. Ed has perfected his sonar, obviously.

Oswald clears his throat expectantly and Ed throws him a brief glance over his shoulder, baring his teeth in a terse smile. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say afternoon; you've been unconscious for the better part of an hour."

"I imagine you had something to do with that," Oswald replies lightly, though there's an edge to his voice that he can't conceal. He raises a hand and runs his fingers along the left side of his neck, immediately locating a tender spot where a needle had undoubtedly pierced his skin. "Please explain to me, Edward, why the last decision I had made was to stay and fight for Gotham and yet here I am, waking up underwater and watching you play some kind of life-sized arcade game with our lives."

"You must forgive me, Oswald," Ed says distractedly, "that I can't devote more of my attention to the tantrum you're about to throw. If you hadn't noticed, I'm a little busy over here trying to avoid certain death." As if on command, beeping fills the air once again as two more green blips appear on the screen in close succession, followed by the slow groan of the submarine and another pull to Oswald's stomach.

Oswald scoffs at the implication; his behavior thus far has been commendable for someone who had been drugged, abducted and held more or less against his will. "Why am I here, Ed?"

He is given no answer; the grating hum of the submarine's machinery is the only sound between them. He gazes at Ed's tense form with a keen interest. What had possessed the genius to drag Oswald along with him? Why had he not simply taken the SS Gertrude and left for the mainland with the treasure? What role does Oswald play in Ed's plan?

Why does Oswald's mind hint at the possibility that perhaps Ed has more than just a practical reason for refusing to leave him behind? Why does he let himself believe, for even just a flickering moment, that there is sentiment behind the man's actions?

Shaking his head to dispel such a foolish train of thought, Oswald huffs out a breath and scrambles to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster. Truthfully, it's not much; he nearly hits his head on the top of the submarine's domed ceiling and he needs to crane his neck and shoulders forward to avoid it. There is not enough room to stand up straight, though he feels a strange sense of superiority knowing his smaller stature makes him far more suited for the submarine's size. There is no doubt that Ed's taller figure would be folded in on itself if he were to stand, and that is a comical image in Oswald's mind.

Oswald crosses the distance between them and takes the seat to Ed's left. He notices that while the other man is seated on a stool, his own chair has a backing and he is grateful for the small convenience. He leans his weight back against it, stretching his right leg out but being careful not to let it touch Ed. The man's body is wound so tightly, knuckles practically white clenched around the steering lever, Oswald is convinced he might explode if disturbed.

It's his sense of self-preservation that stops him from repeating his question. Oswald's street smart intellect fittingly ends at the shoreline and operating a submarine is far out of his wheelhouse. If Ed's body language is any indicator of the effort needed to pilot the vessel, he won't be the one to break the man's concentration. Instead he gazes up at the control center before him, admittedly in awe of Ed's creation, and asks, "What do you need from me?"

Ed glances at him quickly before turning his attention back to the screen above him. "What do you mean by that?"

Oswald gestures at the wall of gadgetry before them. "Well, what will you have me do to help navigate this contraption?"

It seems to take a moment for Ed to understand that Oswald is offering his assistance, and once he does, he scoffs. "Don't be silly, Oswald, it's easily manned by one person. The dog can do it."

With this admission, Oswald is further mystified by his presence on the submarine. He is clearly not needed if Ed can pilot the thing himself, yet here he sits, submerged who knows how many feet beneath the river's surface with a mad genius and a sleepy-eyed dog.

Slowly, the confusion he feels slowly gives way to a wave of prickling anger. His city is burning, and it is not by his hand.

How can he stand idly by as a masked freak and a spineless army threaten to lay the city to waste? How can he flee when in mere hours his home will be nothing but a levelled wasteland, a smoldering island of ashes? How can he allow the likes of Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock to stand at the front line of the battle for Gotham without the _King of Gotham_ alongside them? 

Gotham is his devotion, his legacy, and he cannot believe Ed stole from him the choice to protect it. What was the point? Had they not gotten past their differences months ago, formed a truce—no, a partnership—and placed their trust in one another? What does Ed have to gain from pulling him from the fight, from forcing him away from where his heart most needs to be? Of all of Ed's betrayals, of all the times he had situated himself against Oswald, this is perhaps the most mindless.

Oswald wrenches his attention away from the switchboard and turns to Ed fully intending to unleash his fury upon the him, regardless of the consequences of a distracted pilot, but he is locked in an intense gaze with Ed's dark, dark eyes. There is a steely glint to them that he recognizes immediately as resolve, though resolve to do what, Oswald is unsure—

Until Ed surges forward and slots his lips against Oswald's slack ones. He barely registers it when one of Ed's hands grips the back of his head or when the other comes to rest at the base of his neck. All he can think about, the only sensation he can focus on, is the feeling of the other man's lips pressed tightly against his. Annoyingly, he can't seem to will his own body into action and he laments his lack of participation once Ed pulls away from him. Still, their faces are far closer than Oswald ever dares to think attainable.

Ed's hands are still firmly in place and Oswald can only imagine how strongly his pulse must be jumping beneath the fingers at his neck. His erratically beating heart is loud in his ears and it's a wonder that he can even hear the ever-present thrum of the submarine's machinery.

He swallows loudly to clear his throat, but he has no words. Instead he studies Ed's face, mere inches from his own, trying to read his expression. His eyes flit to his mouth, slightly open with the edges crooked downward, to his high cheekbones, tinged with a faint and uneven blush, to his eyebrows, furrowed with concern or maybe apprehension, then finally to his eyes, which return his gaze unblinkingly, staring earnestly into his very being.

Then Ed is closing the space between their lips again, but this time Oswald is ready. By god, has he ever been so ready. He leans into the kiss, realizing with a thrill that the movement has pushed his neck harder against Ed's hand. His own hands instinctually fly up to touch Ed but he redirects and clutches the lapels of his suit jacket instead. He is uncertain of what the other man will allow, of what he is permitted to have.

If it's just this, if it is only the chaste press of their lips and this one moment, that would be enough.

As soon as he thinks it, he dismisses the idea immediately. This will never be enough. He wants so much more. On the rare occasion he allows himself the sweet torture of imagining intimacy with Ed, Oswald is fiery and possessive and he lays claim to Ed's body in whatever way he'd like. But afterward, the two are tender and soft, vulnerable and open, trusting and faithful. They are connected by more than just the physical act, bound forever by their mutual devotion. There is no one else for them: no police captains, no blond librarians, no Narrows queens, no false friends. Just Oswald and Edward, shaped and strengthened by their shared years of betrayal, cruelty and pain, and finally, _finally_ together.

But if this moment is not the first step to that final endgame, Oswald cannot pursue it. Any less and it will just bring him misery in the end. He resolves to steel himself and resist the sweet pull of Ed's lips if the other man's ultimate desires don't align with his. When it comes to Ed and his heart, it is all or nothing, and as much as it pains him, he has long since prepared himself for the very likely possibility of nothing.

Oswald ends the kiss reluctantly and pulls away. He slowly uncurls his fingers and lowers his hands and to his dismay, Ed does the same with that uneasy look still on his face.

"Ed—"

"Oswald—"

His voice sounds small and fragile under Ed's gravelly timbre and he hates it.

Before he can say anything else, Ed echoes the words that live deep inside of Oswald, a sentiment that has not left him since that cursed day on the docks, a declaration that festers at his core, black and ominous: "I don't love you."

Oswald lets out the breath he had unknowingly been holding. The other man's words pain him, of course, but he is not gutted. A younger, more naive Oswald would have felt daggers pierce his heart at the admission, but now he knows better than to expect Ed's love. In fact he knows better than to let himself imagine that it is something he could ever attain. 

He is about to resignedly shoo Ed back to his switchboard duties when the other man's laughter reaches his ears. It's a low chuckle at first, just shaky exhales of breath, but soon enough it grows in volume and strength until the entire submarine is echoing. It's an empty and mirthless laugh, and while the sound of it alone isn't all too disconcerting, it's the almost manic look on Ed's face that unsettles Oswald. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are stretched nearly to his ears as he laughs. Strangely he doesn't look smug or even the slightest bit pleased, just incredulous, as though he has just learned some great, impossible secret and it has shattered his entire understanding of the universe. 

Finally, the full tremble of his body ceases and he shakes his head as he quiets down. "I don't love you," he repeats with an exhale, that expression of disbelief still splayed across his face.

Oswald finds he is offended more than he is upset. It's not a laughing matter, and Ed's reaction does nothing for his pride. He huffs, swiveling to his left to look anywhere else than at the man's dreamy features, but large hands encircle his face before he can fully turn away. He is guided back to Ed, whose countenance is now schooled to a more appropriate earnestness.

"Ed, I don't know what you think you're playing at, but you need to unhand me _right now_. Let me go," Oswald grits out. His face is on fire from the intimate contact and their close proximity, and the warmth spreads down to his neck without his consent. He hopes it isn't chased by a visible blush; he would hate for Ed to see just how easily he is affected by him.

In response, Ed just brushes a thumb softly over his cheek. Feeling his touch sear an upward stripe across his skin, Oswald offhandedly notes that he is tracing the faint scar beneath his eye, gifted to him during his time in Arkham when Jerome had made it a personal mission to torment him.

"That's the thing, Oswald," Ed finally breathes, low and purposeful as if in prayer, "I can't. Somehow, despite everything you've done to me...in spite of what I've made myself do to you, I just can't let you go."

The words rip through him like a gut shot and as he struggles to hold Ed's gaze, Oswald is transported back to that damned day, the only day his friend had ever truly taken him by surprise—other than today, of course.

Does Ed even know how much power his words have over him? Does he know just how easily he can break him?

As if in slow motion, Oswald feels as his body is pushed unceremoniously off the pier, toppling backward and plunging into the waters below. The river's surface breaks for what feels like eternity before converging above him and trapping him underneath. Thick like honey, it fills his ears and suffocates the scream that attempts to burst from his throat. Immersed and numb, he watches as Ed's lips form around his name, but he can't hear a thing. The water is white noise in his skull, drowning his senses and flooding him.

Ed drops his right hand and grasps his chin firmly with his left, trying to draw Oswald's full focus back onto him. It's nearly the same grip he had on him at Kane Chemicals, forceful and demanding against his flesh. Oswald greedily drinks in the touch, grateful for but also wary of its effects; it grounds him to Ed and stops him from sinking further into the river's abyss, but simultaneously it tethers him to the hood of the librarian's totaled sedan like some kind of sacrificial effigy. A sharp hiss cuts through the haze which surrounds him: the unforgiving sizzle of acid corroding metal a mere inches from his own flesh.

Ed's attempts to draw him back are distant and muddled. If only Oswald could hear the man through the thick molasses that engulfs him, past the insidious drip of the acid suspended above him.

Instead, he gazes into those dark eyes unseeingly, blissfully unswayed by the gravity of the other man's stare, content for now to simply be in his presence and hold his full attention. He foolishly imagines a world where he is Edward Nygma's sole focus, perhaps even his purpose. Is he mayor of Gotham again, worthless to one, but priceless to two? Or is he recovering from a gunshot wound to the shoulder beneath the other man's duvet, falling into restful sleep despite the neon green luminescence that flashes across his eyelids?

Maybe he is driving a stolen GCPD cruiser from the docks to the Narrows, giggling breathlessly with the ridiculous man in green whose face and thigh are crusted with blood for his sake. He recalls having turned the siren on as they flew through the empty streets, feeling gleeful and young. They do not dwell on the strange turn of events they have just experienced, that is, Oswald's sacrifice or even more surprisingly, Ed's loyalty.

It is the siren that finally manages to cut through the murky waters that surround Oswald.

"Oswald."

Ed's voice remains muffled in his ears as the waters blanketing him finally part and the siren continues its wail. Except no, now it's more of a sharp whoop, quick and shrill. Insistent and pounding.

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Green. Green. Green.

" _Oswald_."

Oswald snaps from his reverie and his eyes slide left from Ed's concerned face to the monitor hung above them. It's illuminated with a mass of green pixels, distinctly larger than the ones before it and also much closer to the bottom of the screen, furiously blinking in time with the blaring alarm that rings throughout the submarine. Then a lightbulb above them flickers to life, bathing them both in an eerie green glow for a brief moment before flashing in tandem with the shrieking chirp of the alarm.

It takes an almost embarrassing number of seconds for Oswald to understand the current situation. Once he does, an ugly noise halfway between a squawk and a squeal escapes him and it's his turn to laugh in Ed's face. He feels no amusement but surely someone else from the outside looking in would find their circumstances hilarious. Two grown idiots on a self-made submarine, distracted momentarily by stolen kisses and painful memories, destined to die an anticlimactic and anonymous death underneath Gotham's mine-covered river. There is also a dog wearing a spiked collar on board, which is sad, but also a bit ridiculous.

Oswald has always considered himself as close to indestructible as a human could possibly be, considering the number of times he's skirted death, and he thinks now this is the universe's way of stripping him of his arrogance. His body shakes with laughter and he stares wide-eyed at Ed, who hasn't lifted a single finger or even spared a glance at the screen before them. Rather than concerned, he simply looks bemused at his reaction. Oswald considers it fitting that he's lost his mind in the other's presence, Ed being the perfect line between genius and mad.

And perhaps it's the bit of mad Oswald has within himself that propels him forward to once more press his lips against Ed's. His hands find purchase on the other man's upper arms and his fingers dig desperately into his biceps. He can't help but smile as Ed's hands return to cup his face again, thumbs smoothing across his cheeks in a placating manner.

Surprise jolts through him as Ed readjusts the angles of their faces, opens his mouth slightly, and swipes the tip of his tongue invitingly along the seam of Oswald's lips. Ed pulls him even closer, licking insistently at him until he has no choice but to part his own lips in temporary surrender. Spurred by the deafening blare of the alarm, his tongue hungrily slips from his mouth to meet Ed's and he blissfully resigns himself to whatever collision or impact will inevitably follow.

As if by instinct, his arms move of their own accord and he is wrapping them tightly around Ed's neck. His body gravitates closer and he is unabashedly clambering onto Ed's lap, balancing precariously atop his thighs until the other man's arms snake around his waist in a tight embrace. Their kiss grows uncoordinated and feverish, lips persistent, teeth clacking, tongues sliding, and Oswald can't imagine a better way to go. He thinks with a thrill that although he will most certainly die in a moment from a fiery (or maybe watery?) explosion, it has always been Ed who would truly kill him.

Oswald's fingers find the back of Ed's head and he grips his hair tightly, eliciting a low moan from his otherwise preoccupied lips. It's almost drowned by the cacophony of sound all around them, but he revels in the throaty vibration that travels between their connected mouths and in response hums his approval when Ed's nails rake up his back.

The reptilian part of his brain fleetingly wonders if they might have enough time to get each other off when without warning, the urgent staccato of the alarm transforms into a decisive flatline, a single uninterrupted wail that causes his pounding heart to drop from his chest to his stomach.

He rips his face from Ed's, his eyes snapping open, and finds them both basked in the sickly green glow of the no longer flickering bulb. He breathes Ed's name in reverence, fruitlessly regretting their stupid mistakes and their years wasted as adversaries, and he is about to swoop back in for a final taste when suddenly—

_Nothing._


	2. I've got a collar full of chemistry from your company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward recalls his history with Oswald on the pier the morning of Gotham's destruction and takes the other man's advice.

"I'm gonna miss you, Edward."

"I'll miss you too, Oswald." And he means it.

Edward can't pinpoint the exact moment his hatred for Oswald faded; in fact, he can't say with full certainty that he ever hated the man. He considers hate to be such a simple word, and an even simpler action accomplishable by any brute or any child. _Anyone_ can hate someone. 

He's felt a wide range of emotions toward Oswald—fury, outrage, resentment, bitterness; but before that, admiration, gratitude, tenderness. Too complex to categorize under the single theme of hate, their story is a brilliant arc of betrayal and vengeance, rebirth and survival, trust and acquiescence.

Instead, Ed calls to mind the moment he stopped wanting to kill Oswald. Regrettably, it was borne of failure.

His shattered heart had screamed for retribution against the man who froze him in an iceberg and displayed him like a grotesque trophy for all of Gotham to gawk at. Oswald would not escape death by Ed's hand a _third_ time. He was singularly determined to succeed, painstakingly plotting and then carefully crafting a riddle whose answer led to the time and place where Oswald's life would surely meet its end.

Then, he did it all a second time, because the coward had not shown. _Typical_.

After the second snub Ed stormed right into the Iceberg Lounge, his defrosted mind incapable of realizing how foolish it was to act so brazenly. Barreling into the man's own house of power, he had one gun and no backup against Oswald's empire and hired muscle. His single-minded fixation on murdering Oswald led him face to face with the imminent threat of another icy imprisonment—and worse than that, the realization that the man he made of himself, the villain he fashioned in the wake of Oswald's shooting, was no more.

Ed was admittedly deserving of the punishment, bested by the other man not because of Oswald's cunning but because of his own folly. He was just a man, reduced to something less than Edward Nygma, and he resigned himself to his fate.

Ultimately Oswald hadn't even let him have that. His stay of execution passed from the other man's unsmiling lips in an even and almost airy tone as he slowly approached Ed's shock-still form. The stare that bore into him was neutral, devoid of the expressiveness he'd grown accustomed to seeing in those blue-green eyes, but it filled him with dread. Although Oswald's closeness accentuated their height difference, Ed had never felt smaller. The man was right; this was a worse revenge: masquerading in the shell of the Riddler. 

But perhaps the worst part was Oswald's apparent nonchalance about the whole encounter. There was no animosity, no satisfaction, no aggression, no triumph, no expression at all, really. His placid timbre held no bite as he cut Ed down and laid him bare. It was as if that version of Ed was too inadequate to even evoke any sort of emotion from the other man. With his short-circuited brain and his inability to decode riddles meant for children, he was just an insignificant afterthought, a diminishing figure in Oswald's rear view mirror, growing smaller and smaller yet until he disappeared entirely.

The final nail in the coffin was the glimmer of emotion that finally managed to bleed into Oswald's face. Accompanied by a brief furrowing of brows and a tight pursing of lips, the sentiment was one even Ed's addled mind could decipher: pity. _"Goodbye, Ed."_

And that was how Oswald left him. 

_A zebra with a gaping hole in it._

Idiot. Imbecile. 

_Deformed baby._

Directionless. Purposeless.

_Frog in a blender._

Ed no longer wanted to kill Oswald, because it was glaringly obvious that he was just not capable of killing him, no longer equipped to exact his revenge. His intelligence had left him, taking with it his pride, his strength, his guile, his _essence_.

It's sometimes said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Ed was weak and stupid and ordinary—but surely he wasn't insane (he had a certificate, after all). He knew without a doubt that he was beaten, and he conceded his defeat in the cold darkness of the lounge's dance floor, abjectly and utterly alone.

The following days were spent ghosting through the streets of Gotham, a mere shadow of himself. Oswald created in him a vacuum that he was desperate to fill, and by some divine kismet he found himself in the company of Grundy and Lee Thompkins as a means to that end. It wasn't exactly the existence he imagined for himself, living in squalor amongst the filthy masses of the Narrows, but it was better than the emptiness he'd been trapped in after leaving the Iceberg Lounge that night.

The people who surrounded him were uneducated and boorish, but by comparison he was the smartest man in the room again and he clung to that feeling like a lifeline. 

His role as Grundy's manager garnered him an adoring audience and he flourished under their attention. This was something Oswald couldn't take from him—although, that was likely due to his unawareness of Ed's exploits rather than an actual inability to take action. Ed knew the Narrows were last on the list of Oswald's priorities; the district had nothing substantial to offer his empire and was generally disregarded as a result.

He could have continued to fly under the radar, inconsequential to the other, but that was simply unacceptable. So he donned the penguin attire and brandished his broken umbrella with fervor each night, inciting the Narrows' scorn and feeding their disdain of the gluttonous kingpin. They needed a figure to rally against, and if his performance had the added bonus of catching Oswald's attention, que sera, sera.

Following Cherry's death, Ed returned to a familiar position as right-hand man, though this time to Lee Thompkins. His time with Lee was decidedly different from his experience as Oswald's chief of staff, but there were definitely parallels.

She had a similar magnetism to her, though he was unsure if he was drawn to her as a person or to the power she exuded as the Doc. He enjoyed watching her speak, taking relish in the little bit of darkness at her edges that peeked out every so often. They even strategized well together, Ed's pragmatism offsetting Lee's compassion and establishing a balance that embodied her ruling style. If he closed his eyes, their headquarters above Cherry's could transform into the splendid decadence of the Van Dahl manor, and her dark bangs could melt away to reveal a set of clear blue-green eyes that stared at him with the utmost trust.

He quickly grew enamored with the concept of Lee. This was his chance at a do-over, perhaps, a way to allow himself the opportunity he'd thrown away when he chose to destroy Oswald and strip him of his title, his empire, and his life. A mayor or a queen, there was no difference anymore. This could be his purpose.

Of course, half of him was in disagreement with the entire arrangement. How pathetic his fractured psyche was, tedious really. He wanted to get rid of her, to free himself from under her, to spit in her face and set the entire district ablaze. The Narrows was a piteous and lawless place, undeserving of his time or his consideration. He was destined for more than mediating squabbles or rubbing elbows with the oppressed, and Lee's misplaced duty to the people was only holding him back.

Ed couldn't allow himself to fall fully into her orbit. He wasn't her docile pet. He needed to do something to orchestrate his release. He needed to stop fighting himself and just become _whole_ again. And he needed someone's help.

He'd heard of the Penguin's admission to Arkham Asylum, naturally, and the other man's misery proved to be his delight. Oswald was in an absolutely abysmal state, his pale skin stretched thin over his gaunt face in stark contrast to his unruly jet black hair and an ugly red gash painted across his right cheek. His oversized uniform made him look like a child who'd been gifted a sweater two sizes too large, as evidenced by the shapeless, striped sleeves that ended past his fingertips, obscuring his hands.

Ed's own hands had been busy, fiddling unconsciously with his visitor's card underneath the table. He hadn't felt this alive in such a long time; the veneration of the Narrows paled in comparison to the power he felt sitting across from Oswald's small and unimpressive form. Elation flowed through his body like blood through his veins and he snickered in the face of his poor, feathery once-friend, gratification unhampered by the other man's baiting words.

He might not have been the same Edward Nygma who had single-handedly toppled Oswald's reign over Gotham, but as his right hand tightly gripped the back of his visitor's chair and his mouth recounted the man's hopelessness in plain and succinct verbiage, he felt renewed, reborn, regenerated. Something was changing within him.

He felt a faint weight leave him as he pressed his ten fingers down on the surface of the table between them, and that lightness allowed him to spin on his tail and depart from the oppressive cell that housed them both. Something _good_ was coming his way, he could feel it in his very core.

_"The only way you'll get rid of me is to kill yourself. I guess you are smarter than me."_

_"What if there's a way to do this where nobody gets hurt? I'm listening."_

Days later, Ed was back at the asylum. The pen in his hand felt like a lead weight as he initialed the intake paperwork before him.

_"What has two eyes but can't see?"_

With just a muted buzz as his announcement, that blasted man was before him again, teary eyes drilling holes into his skull and ecstatic expression building a nest inside of Ed's ribcage. Oswald's hysterical voice was a serrated blade, twisting into his brain and shredding him, undoing him in a way only he seemed to know how.

Something powerful was building between them, growing with each word they flung at each other. Ed recoiled at the feeling but it prickled incessantly at the back of his neck, slipping into his brainstem and wrapping itself around his mind. He fought back against it fiercely, not understanding. Of course he had read the letter, who else?

 _"I see HIM, Ed. I see the_ other you _."_

Oswald flew forward to cage him against the edge of the desk, his hands grasping at his clothing, jerkily balling and releasing his fists into the lapels of his jacket. He looked crazed but determined, his glassy eyes staring straight into Ed's, unblinking.

They were mere inches apart. He could see every distressed line that creased the smaller man's pale face and felt his ragged breaths as he gasped out his recognition. Ed's heart was pounding, pumping life into every extremity, setting his nerves aflame. Oswald was the key; just being in his presence was electrifying and he was nearly vibrating with anticipation. Were it possible, Ed would have plunged his hand down the other man's throat to physically rip the word out from inside of him. Instead he gripped the front of Oswald's uniform, pulling him even closer. 

_"I. Need. You—"_

Past the thundering thrum of blood in his ears, he heard his own voice pleading beneath Oswald's. His weak, foolish side didn't understand. He didn't know that this was his liberation, his redemption. He was about to be given something beautiful; or rather, it was going to be returned to him. 

_"—Riddler."_

Vitality surged through him like electricity and he gasped at the sheer pleasure of it, reveling in this long-awaited affirmation. He unclenched his fists from the striped fabric and instead moved his grip to the sides of Oswald's face, holding the trembling man steady with just a light pressure. It was too intimate of a gesture and he was too filled with gratification, so he immediately dropped one hand and forced himself to breathe.

His long pulls of breath joined Oswald's shaking pants. He felt peace for the first time in a very long time. It was a welcomed improvement to his erratic and disordered mindset post-iceberg. Whole once more, he straightened himself and looked down on Oswald, the perfect picture of confidence and charm. _"Shall we get to work?"_

Reawakened, Ed's actions finally had meaning, his problems had solutions, and his plans had _flair_. He'd gone undercover at a disco, broke into the enemy's safehouse, made quick work of some henchman—using a rocket launcher of all things—rescued Martin, treated him to some ice cream, and extracted Oswald from Arkham. It was wonderfully thrilling to use his brain to its full capacity again and nothing could take that ecstasy from him.

Until, of course, the less than ideal hiccup with Butch, which led to him at the mercy of the Sirens, when then led to him at the mercy of Sofia Falcone.

The Dentist took the right molar of his bottom row of teeth first. He'd taken it in two pieces, breaking off the top half, exposing and caressing the nerve, before cutting around the gum at its base to extract the bottom half. Ed had screamed all throughout the punishment, stopping only when the blood in his throat garbled the noise and caused him to sputter. The left molar of his top row of teeth was next, and he was honestly peeved at the asymmetry; the man was undoubtedly a master of torture.

In between teeth, Sofia questioned him on Oswald's whereabouts. First she crooned almost sweetly in his ear, promising him sweet reprieve if he just told her where the other man was. Ridiculous, as if he would fold so easily. The next time she asked, she shook a prescription pill bottle enticingly in front of his eyes and assured him it was the strongest opioid pain killer money could buy. Tempting, but Ed knew oxycodone didn't start to take effect until at least twenty minutes after ingestion. It was unlikely he'd be kept alive that long afterward. The third time, she threatened to find everyone dear to him and put them through even worse pain. He nearly laughed, had it not been for the whirring tool halfway in his mouth. There was no one like that except for Oswald, and the idiot woman couldn't even locate him.

The Dentist introduced a new drill that had even more blood gushing freely from the corners of his lips, and the most his sore throat could expel was a long, guttural groan. His mutilated mouth was on fire as the drill bit spiraled into his raw gums and his head was throbbing with the pain, but he would endure it if it meant keeping Sofia away from Oswald. The man had returned him to his former self, saved him from a meager, dull, _ordinary_ life; surely this was the least Ed could do.

Then, as he kneeled on the docks with his executioners' guns trained on him, his mind echoed the sentiment. Oswald had died for him too, in a manner of speaking. His death at Ed's hand, while only temporary, had unlocked a part of Ed that had been lying dormant inside of him his entire life. The other man's blood had spilt so that he could finally realize his true potential, and for that he was grateful. Perhaps Ed's death was simply repayment for the life he was able to attain because of Oswald's first sacrifice.

In the moments following that thought, Oswald's sacrifices climbed to a count of two.

_"Trust is so very hard to find in Gotham. But I trust you, Ed."_

Two gunshots and three questions later, Ed was dumbfounded by the turn of events.

There was something painfully soft in Oswald's eyes in the silent seconds that chased his heartfelt admission, but it slid away behind a carefully constructed mask as he decisively pocketed his gun. After a moment's hesitation, Ed shakily tucked his own borrowed weapon away as well, his head buzzing with new information. Oswald trusted him. Oswald gave up his revenge for him.

It was too much to absorb.

He could understand a transaction and he could understand a debt. When Oswald had secured his release from Arkham and invited him into his home, there was an unspoken expectation that Ed would work alongside him in the mayoral campaign. When he had broken Riddler out of his own clouded mind, he was securing an ally who would in turn break him out of Arkham. These were roles Ed gladly filled, but in essence they were still favors exchanged for favors.

But Oswald giving up vengeance against Sofia was inexplicable; it was selfless and uncharacteristically kind and Ed didn't know what to make of it. It was reminiscent of the last time he'd chosen to protect Ed, tied to a chair at The Sirens, obstinate in his refusal to reveal his location to Barbara. He'd been willing to die for Ed, because Oswald loved— _oh_.

That revelation was jarring. Did Oswald really harbor the same sentiment for him after all this time? Would he ever try to broach the subject with Ed again? Would Ed even know how to move forward from there? There were too many questions and too few answers. So he deflected, choosing not to acknowledge the palpable connection between them, and soon enough they were bundled up in the car Oswald had stolen, speeding recklessly and sharing stifled giggles and broad but guarded smiles.

When Oswald dropped him off at Cherry's, Ed felt a foreign heaviness fill him as he watched the car's tail lights disappear around a corner. Perhaps it was smart if he didn't see Oswald for some time, but that didn't mean the idea sat very well with him.

Ed didn't give himself a chance to dwell on his discovery at the pier. Instead he threw himself into his newest venture, The Riddle Factory, and then with as much intensity, threw himself into a whirlwind relationship with none other than Lee Thompkins.

For all of Lee's positive qualities, she was terrible at subterfuge. Ed saw through her act easily but allowed himself to be used, desperately needing the distraction. If she was under the impression that he wanted a romance, he'd play the role: catering to her whims, planning her heists, simpering at her like a desperate puppy dog. 

When the opportunity to cement her trust in him came, it was unfortunate that it was at Oswald's expense. _"Oswald, we have been through thick and thin, and I hold no grudge on you."_ The betrayal of his friend was just a necessary evil in his plan, but he couldn't stop the shameful sting he felt as he gazed at the other man's stunned expression through the vault bars.

Eventually, his entanglement with Lee came to a head, treacherous and bloody, and as their lips gravitated toward each other for the last time, he briefly wondered what it might have been like to feel someone else's mouth against his. Feathered hair and blue-green eyes were the last images his mind supplied before he succumbed to his injury and dropped to the ground unconscious—

Pressure at his fingers wrenches Ed from the rapid onslaught of memories—recalled in near-perfect detail due to his enhanced eidetic memory—and he numbly accepts the leash Oswald thrusts into his hand. He and the dog watch as the other man limps away from them, a determined air to his trademark gait.

Oswald doesn't look back from his death march, even as Ed spits an empty threat at his retreating figure. He's hit with a wave of indignation at Oswald's dismissal, offended by his willingness to forsake everything they worked so hard on these past few months. They only _just_ managed to reach some semblance of a friendship again, after years wasted chasing vengeance and hurting each other, and he's going to throw it all away—for what? For a city that never gave a damn about Oswald Cobblepot or Edward Nygma? To run to the aid of people who'd disrespected and ridiculed them their entire lives? To die in the streets like a dog, gunned down by some faceless foot soldier?

The last thought affects Ed more than he'd like to admit and suddenly he's flinging dog-Edward's lead to the ground. He's upon Oswald before he even makes the conscious decision to follow after him, forcibly whirling him around by the left shoulder, not bothering to overtake him and block his path this time.

Oswald lets out an undignified squawk in response to the sudden coercion before tipping his chin up at Ed in blatant defiance. There is a visible tension in his jaw from the clenching of his teeth and the glare in his eyes is piercing despite the drying tears streaked down his cheeks. 

Ed recognizes this particular expression, is all too familiar with it, in fact. He can predict what comes next, either some petulant retort or a shrill expletive hissed from the tight line of his downturned lips. But he doesn't want to fight with Oswald; he knows any attempts to persuade the immovable man from this path will be futile.

And Ed, for once, has nothing to say. He was spurred forward solely by instinct and now, standing toe to toe with Oswald and his challenging gaze, he is at a complete loss for words. He certainly can't articulate the concern he feels for Oswald's preservation, or the anxiety that swirls in his stomach at the idea of never seeing the other man again, or the hollowness he secretly fears will swallow him up and suffocate him if Oswald dies and leaves him alone. Again.

"You can't leave," he tries. It sounds far better than _Don't leave me_.

Oswald just regards him suspiciously, then glances down to Ed's gloved hand, which is still firmly clamped over his shoulder. He follows his line of sight, mindful of the prolonged contact, but doesn't adjust his grip.

"You won't make it out of this alive, Oswald." Ed's tone is matter-of-fact. It's not a conjecture or an exaggeration; they both witnessed the destructive force wielded by the masked soldier at the clinic. 

In response, Oswald lets out a bark of laughter. It's harsh and derisive, mirroring the cold look on his face. "Ed, in another life you'd rejoice at an outcome like that." It's an unnecessary jibe but he's not incorrect.

Maybe Ed reacts visibly to it, because Oswald lets out a long sigh and the sharpness quickly dissipates, leaving him all pale skin and bright eyes. He looks smaller now, but no less adamant. "When Jim spared my life all those years ago and banished me from Gotham, that was the most lost I've ever been," he recounts pensively, "because I was away from the city. It's part of me."

Ed doesn't relate. The city could be flattened and he would carry on, be glad of it even. But he knows what it feels like to be lost, to suddenly and violently be _without_ and to have the loss consume him. He remembers inducing hallucinations and chasing ghosts to fill the emptiness, mixing stimulants with insomnia until the room glowed red and _pour myself over him, moon spilling in, and I wake up alone_.

And Ed can't endure it again, not when he has his friend _right there_ , right in his hand, breathing and real.

"Gotham is my city." Oswald is drenched in river water, a live crab dangling precariously from his breast pocket. "My life is etched on the walls of every alley and dirty warehouse here." His blue lips are moving but Ed can barely hear him over the incessant _dripdripdrip._ "My blood lives in its broken concrete." Ed's eyes flit down to his stomach, knowing exactly what lives under his buttoned waistcoat. "I'm staying to fight." 

Then Ed's body is moving before he even wills it. His brain barely has time to catch up to his left hand, which is slipping into his jacket pocket and closing carefully around its target—a green, feathered dart he'd absentmindedly pocketed while doing inventory on the antique weaponry cache of their spoils—but he's quickly brought to speed, grounded by the feel of the tranquilizer in his fingers.

Oswald's eyes don't track the movement. Instead he's gazing up at him expectantly, waiting for a response. When he doesn't receive one, he heaves another sigh and lifts his hand across his chest to rest on top of Ed's on his shoulder. He squeezes it once, a parting gesture, but Ed's not ready to say good-bye.

"Forgive me, Oswald," he says in a near whisper, before pulling his hand from his pocket and plunging the point of the dart into the other man's neck. Oswald howls, a mix of pain and surprise, his hands flying up to scrabble at Ed's offending wrist. The drug moves within him quickly, clouding his eyes and weighing down his limbs. His face is pinched with confusion as he exhales Ed's name. 

Ed can feel the fight leave him and flings the dart away, instead gripping Oswald's arms to support his failing body. He carefully lowers them both to the ground in a seated position and maneuvers the other man so he can lean on him for support. All the while, he tries to avoid Oswald's accusing gaze, but he catches one last glimpse of hurt before his eyes flutter shut and his body falls completely slack.

It's a rather off-putting experience for Ed, acting before thinking, and as he reaches an arm across Oswald's shoulders to redistribute the weight of his crumpled form more comfortably against his side, the other man's words echo tauntingly in his mind:

_"But perhaps you could learn something if you listened to THIS instead of THIS."_

Ed rolls his eyes and looks down at Oswald's uncharacteristically serene face. Great. Now he's got to improvise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL. No part of me was expecting to write so much of season 4 Ed's gay ass but this chapter kind of got away from me, as you might've guessed. What started as a quick flashback somehow turned into 3k+ words of his (totally canonical, trust me) slow burn, but we'll get back on track with submarine Ed and and Oswald soon.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took a chance on the first chapter, as well as to everyone who stuck around for the second installment. You are wonderful, patient, ethereal individuals and I would gladly lay my life down for every one of you. After the third chapter is posted, of course.
> 
> [SIDE NOTE, totally unrelated: Who here has watched Utopia?! Because I binged all 8 episodes in one sitting the other day and need to vent to someone about its cancellation. Call the press, DM Jeff Bezos or whoever, idgaf, but I need more of Cory Michael Smith's shark eyes in my life or I'll lose my mind. Thank you and good-bye forever apparently.]


	3. So maybe tonight I'll be the libertine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed struggles to understand the motivation behind his actions on the pier and our two boys finally _talk_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed was giving me some serious BBC Sherlock vibes this chapter, so naturally I had to throw in some Empty Hearse drama and have him do something a bit Not Good to Oswald. I love a good cold logician. Enjoy!

Maneuvering Oswald's dead weight into the submarine is no small feat, and Ed is panting with the exertion by the time they're both on board. Gloves and bowler hat long discarded, he cards a sweaty hand through his hair and contemplates his next steps. 

The most obvious plan of action is to get far, far away from Gotham and deal with Oswald's ire once they're both safely on the mainland. If his calculations are correct, and seldom are they not, the trip across the river should take no longer than an hour. In just one hour, Gotham can be a distant memory for them.

But his actions on the pier aren't sitting right with Ed, and he knows he won't be satisfied until he understands them.

Is he merely being protective? There is little doubt in his mind that Oswald will die if he joins the GCPD in their defense of Gotham. It's the full power of the US Army against a bedraggled and rag-tag group of police officers who haven't had a good meal or full night's sleep in months—it doesn't take a genius to see the odds are considerably stacked in favor of the former. But why is it Ed's concern if Oswald wants to run off and play hero? He's a grown man and the consequences are his and his alone to deal with.

Except that's not true, not even a little bit. Ed recalls the fierce ache that gripped him at the idea of being left alone and realizes it's a newfound fear. He doesn't think he would have felt that kind of fear months prior, before he and Oswald had officially reconciled and forged their new partnership. What was it again that Oswald had attributed it to? _Fate._

Ed does believe in fate. He believed in fate back when he was undergoing his transformation from forensic scientist to full-fledged killer and happened upon a gangrened Penguin in the woods, and he believes in it now while crouched in a submarine with the unconscious body of that very same man. All roads seem to lead to Oswald.

Despite the sentiment, Ed is a man of logic, and perhaps a scientific approach may prove to be the most efficient way to secure answers to his questions. Clicking his tongue decisively, he situates himself on a stool in front of the control panel, and some nurturing part of him has the forethought to ensure Oswald's designated seat beside him as a backrest. He switches on the engine and the steel vessel comes alive at his touch, all mechanical clicks and hums. The submarine hisses loudly as the ballast tanks fill with water and they begin their descent deep into the river.

First, Ed decides, he needs to get to the bottom of his investigation. In the controlled environment of his submarine, perhaps he can concoct an experiment to conduct with Oswald. An evaluation of his findings will certainly shed light on his motivations.

_Observations: Ed enjoys Oswald's company; Ed prefers to have Oswald in his life; Ed dreads the idea of a life without Oswald; Ed experiences a visceral pain when faced with the possibility that Oswald might die; Ed drugged Oswald to prevent him from meeting his inevitable demise_

_Hypothesis: Ed and Oswald are very close friends_

That idea falls flat immediately; it's too broad and much too obvious. Of course they're friends; they've spent the past several months basically glued at the hip, working late into the night constructing the submarine. Well, _Ed_ worked on the submarine, but Oswald was dutifully present to crack open a bottle of wine or to provide a welcomed distraction when the work became too overwhelming and Ed's head buzzed with angry static. 

He thinks back on their recent interactions fondly, indulging in the comfortable way they would collapse on the library furniture together in an exhausted heap of limbs. He'd noticed that the other man's softness was reserved solely for his workspace, and only in Ed's presence, and he soaked it up like a sponge, reveling in the other man's willingness to let down his defenses once again in spite of their past history. 

Not all walls are torn down, however. Oswald takes the utmost care to ensure that he never touches him, but the more they occupy the same space, the more Ed feels himself crave _something_ more from him. An encouraging clap on the shoulder or a ribbing elbow jab would suffice, anything would do. He recalls their last hug, stiff and unfeeling on his end, relieved and desperate on Oswald's, in the empty warehouse of Kane Chemicals. Wasted.

And Ed can't deny the fleeting scenario he'd created in the moments after Lee stabbed him the day the bridges blew. He had visualized Oswald in his arms, and though short-lived, the idea seared itself in his mind like a scar, ever-present. Their noses bumping clumsily before righting themselves, their eyes fluttering shut almost in unison, their lips coming together, finally, in a wordless farewell.

Then Ed died, or so he's told, and buried with him that moment, thinking nothing of it until he was reunited with Oswald at his City Hall headquarters with a gun trained to his chest. The Penguin had certainly done well for himself in the No Man's Land Gotham had become, looking polished and powerful in a dark three-piece suit finished with a pair of fingerless black gloves. The pop of red at his neck and his elegantly coiffed hair certainly contributed to the imagery, as did the burning conviction in his eyes as he made Ed an earnest promise. Oswald was truly a sight to behold, strong and immutable even as his pupils blew wide with emotion and his voice trembled with strain, and Ed found he couldn't look away.

_New Hypothesis: Ed feels more than platonic emotions toward Oswald_

Ed sighs in annoyance, flipping through his memories like pages in a book, each one more telling than the last. The scenes extend far past No Man's Land, past his time in the Narrows, even, throwing him back to the Van Dahl mansion where he and Oswald lived and worked in perfect harmony. They were different men in that life, young and untainted by each other's betrayals. Oswald's devotion to him should have been obvious, apparent in every lingering glance and nervous stammer, but Ed was blind to the signs back then. He'd never been the recipient of such affections and his experience in reading those particular cues was embarrassingly lacking.

Really, if the foolish man had just made his feelings known, who knows where they would be now.

Though, Ed understands all too well how difficult it is to put words out into the world with zero control over how they're received or returned. _"I cared about you. And I miss you."_ Even Ed's most genuine confession was to his mind's projection of Oswald, to his ghost, not even to the man himself. It takes a certain kind of man with undeniable strength to open himself up to that kind of terrifying exposure.

That is why Ed felt his attitude toward Oswald undergo a definite shift in their shared months prior, beginning specifically after their bizarre confrontation with Mr. Scarface.

 _"I welcomed you into my home. And yes, I was not a good friend, to you or to anyone."_ Oswald had pointedly looked back at Ed, not to discern how much more time was needed to distract Mr. Penn, but to include him in the conversation, to signal to him that these words were just as much his as they were Mr. Penn's. _"It's why I'm alone."_ His breath hitched at the end, and even without seeing his face Ed could tell the man was, for once, being authentic, confessing his failures and admitting his weakness in a rare moment of vulnerability.

_"But I saw you for what you are and I valued that. That must be worth something."_

Something inside of Ed reared to life in response. Being seen and being valued in spite of that person—no, _because_ of that person: it was worth everything to the overlooked and underappreciated Edward Nygma who worked sixty-hour weeks for the GCPD, to the cornered killer who failed to convince Ms. Kringle that his actions weren't those of a freak or psychopath, to the budding villain who was met with Foxy's pitying stare as he gently labeled him insane from the front seat of his car, to the newly defrosted moron who garnered Lee Thompkins' trust only because he wasn't smart enough to turn on her. He'd never been accepted for who he was, not by his family, his peers or even his short-term love interests—the only outlier had been Oswald.

So when all was said and done and he looked down on his blood-spattered friend, pointedly ignoring his frantic ramblings about the dummy, Ed decided that this would be their fresh start. He would wipe the slate clean of murdered librarians, toppled empires, frozen prisons, and every other ugly thing that marred their history. Life could begin anew.

 _"I accept you for the person that you are, just as you accept me for the cold logician that I am."_ I forgive you for all your misguided and selfish actions, and in turn I expect your forgiveness for my cruel responses and subsequent betrayals. _"That's why this friendship is great."_ Our friendship has weathered the storm and I intend to keep it that way, if you're amenable.

Oswald's slow chuckle was positive enough, and Ed was nearly certain the other man picked up on the gravity of his words. _"Perhaps, Edward, we really are meant for each other."_

Together they laughed, Ed emboldened by all things said and unsaid, and that was the start of a new and almost domestic chapter of their friendship, characterized by the warm glow of his workspace and their easy company, wordless conversations, fond glances and comfortable silence. That, coupled with the fleeting impulses that Ed sometimes had to temper, overturns his last supposition and presents a more specific one.

_Final Hypothesis: Ed loves Oswald_

It's a novel idea and Ed isn't sure he's equipped to study this train of thought. What independent variable might he introduce to test it? Love is hardly a quantifiable concept.

Ed hears Oswald stir behind him and immediately steels himself for the imminent confrontation. Straightening his back, he holds the position until it's almost painful, all flexed muscle and rigid lines. In truth there stands a chance Oswald might lash out at him physically upon waking, and he might avoid some of the pain if he begins bracing for the attack now.

Oswald is upright now, he thinks, and he busies himself with the panel of switches and screens in front of him. Luckily, they encounter a mine in the distance and he has a moment of distraction as he redirects their course.

Not one to be ignored, Oswald clears his throat and Ed nearly gives himself whiplash with how quickly he snaps his neck to glance back at him. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say afternoon; you've been unconscious for the better part of an hour." The veracity of his statement takes him by surprise probably more than it does Oswald; time must have gotten away from him as he formulated his hypothesis. If only the tranquilizer had been more potent—maybe then he could have ironed out the remaining details of his study before the other man regained his consciousness.

Oswald's response is calm with a prickly undercurrent, a far cry from the fury Ed was expecting, but he doesn't consider himself out of the woods quite yet. Oswald obviously doesn't take lightly to being sedated and essentially kidnapped, and his attempt to deviate from that particular subject manner is instead met with an impatient "Why am I here, Ed?".

Ed stiffens even further at the ordinarily innocuous question, unable to provide an appropriate answer, and he delicately chooses to instead ignore the other's words altogether.

There's movement behind him followed by the sound of Oswald's uneven step, and he has to control the evenness of his breath as his friend joins him at the helm of the submarine, taking the empty seat to his left.

Ed grips the steering lever tightly and it anchors him to the physical world even as his mind tries to lift him up, up and away with memories and moments all starring Oswald. The other man is gazing encouragingly at him from across the table, hopeful that his sweater and biscuit tin were well received; he's serving Ed ginger tea with honey by firelight, solemn with the weight of what could have been lost if Butch hadn't been stopped; he's cackling at Ed's showy and absolutely unnecessary use of his gun as they escape from Arkham Asylum, giddy with exhilaration and freedom; he's casually placing a torque wrench of the correct size and pressure in his palm before Ed even has to ask for it, anticipatory of his needs in a way he's never experienced before.

"What do you need from me?"

Ed is certain telepathy isn't real, but Oswald's question gives him pause. "What do you mean by that?" he responds warily. He needs Oswald to lend him some emotional literacy, that much is sure. He also needs to make heads or tails of his distractingly swirling thoughts of Oswald, which he can't do if he hasn't finished designing his experiment.

"Well, what will you have me do to help navigate this contraption?" Oswald is looking at him as if he's grown a second head and motions vaguely at the control center to further punctuate his meaning.

Ed blinks at the clarification, which really should have been obvious, and hopes the relief in his voice isn't detectable as he dismisses Oswald's offer of assistance. Assured that the other man can't read his thoughts, he instead focuses his attention on the problem at hand.

If only Ed could just _talk_ to Oswald, the other man would surely have some insight for him. After all, Oswald had already come to understand and embrace his own feelings for Ed. The other man would have confessed them, too, had he not been stood up the night of their planned dinner. How did he know? When did he know?

He backtracks to the night Butch nearly choked him to death and the strange moment he and Oswald shared on the couch later that evening. Ed promised him his commitment, and in response, Oswald—well, to this day Ed still isn't completely sure what Oswald did. The way he slowly gravitated toward him seemed like he might try to kiss him, which at the time would have been very confusing for Ed, but instead he gathered him up into a tight and incredibly intimate hug that went on for far longer than a normal hug between friends would. Ed had chalked the peculiarity of Oswald's actions up to his anxiety over the night's events, but in hindsight that was likely a very pivotal moment for the other man.

Oswald must have felt a very similar confusion about what he felt for Ed, and perhaps he'd been trying to...explore it?

Ed is intrigued. His independent variable could be as simple as that, really: a kiss. That actual physical aspect, never before experienced in their relationship, may actually prove to either support his hypothesis or reveal to him that his attraction was unfounded and he'd simply allowed yet another unhealthy obsession to take hold over him. 

Regardless, it's a daunting idea, hardly appropriate for two friends. Oswald might not forgive him if the latter is the result. Ed might not know what to do with the data if the former is supported. He stealthily turns his entire body to face Oswald's, but the other man is staring intently at the switchboard, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He face is twisted in vehemence, a dark scowl drawing lines into his pale skin, and Ed is drawn to him implicitly. If given the chance he will memorize every single expression the man is capable of and compile each emotion into a secret database for his consumption.

Don't think, just do. His heart is thrumming in his chest, racing with the possibilities, and his usually dominant mind submits readily to the sensation. _Don't think, just do._

Oswald turns to face him as well and Ed's mind is made up. He meets the other man's scowl with his own hard stare and for a brief moment he sees hesitation creep into those strikingly bright eyes, but Ed has never been more decided in his life.

When his lips make contact with Oswald's unsuspecting mouth, Ed expects his thoughts to race a mile a minute, for his mind to dissect every effect of the kiss, for his brain to take that information and compare it to the data he's already collected for analysis.

But none of that happens. Instead he's reaching out instinctively, the need to touch Oswald too strong to abate, and curling one hand around the back of his head, splaying the other one at his neck, soft but possessive. Ed almost doesn't register that Oswald isn't exactly reacting to the kiss, his thought process slowed and his head pleasantly fuzzy, and he finds he doesn't care that his mind has gone blissfully blank in this moment. No clinical deductions, no intrusive thoughts, just Oswald. 

It just feels _right_ to be connected to his friend like this, to hold him in his hands in this way. It's a foreign act for them but something about it is achingly familiar, like returning to one's childhood bedroom to find that everything is exactly as you'd left it all those years ago. A warm sense of security blankets him from head to toe and no rationale can explain the utter sureness that accompanies it. He loves Oswald—he is _in love with_ Oswald. The clarity that strikes him is like cracking a pill between his teeth and surrendering to the immediate and euphoric rush.

It's merely a moment, their brief but intimate contact, and Ed pulls his face away from Oswald's, only then allowing his logical thought to return so that he can study the other man's reaction. He watches his Adam's apple bob in what appears to be a nervous swallow before redirecting his gaze up to meet Oswald's questioning stare. He's not ready to explain himself just yet, and instead sweeps forward to press his lips against Oswald's again.

_"I did it for love."_

This time around Oswald responds to the kiss, and it really is a beautiful feeling. This attempt, with Oswald's engagement, is far more revealing than the first and Ed's mind can't help but burst back into action after its momentary incapacitation. He catalogues the feel of the other man's lips against his, the faint fragrance of yesterday's cologne, the texture of his hair, the warmth of his skin, the almost timid grip of his fingers at his suit jacket; all the while he needs more, some primal part of him demanding that he crawl right inside of Oswald and make his home there.

_"I did it because I love you."_

The rapid flutter of Oswald's pulse beneath his fingers is a physical reminder of the vivacity Ed sought to preserve earlier that morning on the dock. His friend can be impulsive and frivolous, and running off to defend Gotham was just a manifestation of those traits. Nothing matters other than him and Oswald, and whatever path they are set on now. Ed decides the right choice was made, believes with absolute conviction that Oswald is better off here, at his side and under his hands. 

_"You should know that."_

And it's that very conviction that causes him to falter, extinguishing the fiery resolve and replacing it with cold realization. His sudden revelation forces an echo in his mind, pulled from memories of a darker and crueler time.

_"Love is about sacrifice. It's about putting someone else's needs and happiness before your own."_

Ed knows what Oswald needs is Gotham. His love for the city—the birthplace of Penguin, the burial site for his beloved mother, the home for which he'd spilt precious blood and shed countless tears—is so ingrained in him that there's no Oswald without his Gotham. And weak, sad Ed, so afraid of being alone, had completely dismissed the man's fierce and unrelenting devotion to the city, selfishly ripping away his right to stay and defend Gotham and forcing him hundreds of feet underwater where escape would be impossible.

If Gotham burns to the ground, Oswald will be unhappy, and worse yet he will be changed. Even with his treasure on the mainland, even with Ed at his side, he won't be the same man. And it will be Ed's fault.

When Oswald breaks their kiss, Ed's returns his greedy hands to his lap, chastised. He sighs Oswald's name just as Oswald exhales his, and the discovery leaves his lips before he can stop it: "I don't love you."

The sheer irony of it all blooms like an ugly bruise over his heart. How fitting, for Ed to commit the same crime against his friend that he'd been victim to as well. He is taking Gotham from Oswald just as Oswald took Isabella from him. It's enough to make him laugh, and so he does, choking out a pained chuckle that inadvertently transforms into a full-bodied cackle. 

Selfishly, Oswald hadn't wanted to share Ed: he wanted to be the person to make Ed happy. But what drove Ed to his actions today was more than just selfishness; it was his fear of loneliness and abandonment: simple cowardice. He is a foolish and wretched man, truly pathetic. He laughs harder, an ugly and empty sound even to his own ears.

A coward, that's all he is, stealing away Oswald's autonomy and robbing him from the right to choose. Because he truly doesn't know what Oswald's decision would have been if he'd been given the choice between Ed and Gotham. He could take playing second fiddle when it came to the rest of the ordinary, inconsequential people that have played passing roles in his life but it just might break him to learn he's not Oswald's first choice.

The next time Ed speaks, he forms his version of an apology. "I don't love you." _If I loved you I wouldn't have done this to you. I would have let you go._

Oswald's nostrils flare slightly as he exhales through his nose, expression miffed. He starts to turn away, but Ed, panicked, reaches out to cup his face and halt his retreat. Doesn't Oswald understand?

"Ed, I don't know what you think you're playing at, but you need to unhand me right now. Let me go." 

Ed registers the iciness in the other man's voice belatedly and it's like a bucket of water is dropped over his head. In his investigation of his feelings toward Oswald, he had assigned Oswald's love for him as the controlled variable, the one unchanging constant between them.

His data could have been skewed from the very beginning, based on nothing but his own subjective assumptions about Oswald. Perhaps Ed had been wrong all along and the other man no longer felt such affection toward him. Oswald had never expressly said anything, of course, not since the day of his unfortunate execution, and many less than savory things had occurred between them since that time.

He scrabbles for an appropriately pacifying response, but it occurs to him that perhaps honesty might be his best tool in this situation. He's already drugged and abducted the man, for god's sake, and there simply is no flowery story he can spin to justify it—he may as well lay all his cards on the table, as frightening as the notion is.

"That's the thing, Oswald, I _can't_ ," Ed says carefully, running his thumb absently over a white line marring Oswald's cheek. He vaguely recalls his ugly satisfaction at seeing this same mark, open and undoubtedly smarting, during his boastful visit to Arkham, and regret deepens his resolve.

His next words are surprisingly steady, voice low and earnest despite his internalized revulsion at verbalizing such a weakness. "Somehow, despite everything you've done to me...in spite of what I've made myself do to you, I just can't let you go."

He wishes with all his being that Oswald understands the profundity of his words, as imprecise as they are.

But the confession seems to completely short circuit Oswald's brain and Ed is thrown by the sudden change. Rather than reacting, he visibly deflates and his eyes take on a faraway look, unseeing despite being trained somewhere on Ed's face.

"Oswald." Met with silence, Ed grips Oswald's chin and tries to tilt his head up to meet his hazy gaze. Nobody's home.

The other man's strange disassociation is concerning, and also incredibly unhelpful. How is he supposed to ascertain where they stand without an appropriate response from Oswald? 

He releases Oswald's face and glances around the submarine for inspiration. His attention is caught by a green switch inconspicuously tucked away underneath a notepad and a brilliant idea comes to mind.

The switch activates software Ed had originally created as a joke-slash-weapon, in case Oswald got on his nerves while on the way to the mainland and he needed to put him back in his place. It's a mere simulation, constructed to mimic an unavoidable mine in their immediate course, harmless in nature. A little trick never hurt anybody, and really it would have been quite a sight to watch the other man frantically flounder about as they neared their "impending doom". 

But the threat of death is undoubtedly a powerful force and he's certain it will reveal Oswald's truth.

Resolved, Ed flicks the green switch and a large mass of green materializes on the screen before them, positioned directly in the sonar's immediate path. The submarine comes to life with a jarring, ear-splitting alarm, causing him to flinch and reevaluate his volume choice. It may be useful in pulling Oswald from from his catatonic state, though, and Ed urgently starts to call his name. 

"Oswald. _Oswald_!" He makes sure to insert an appropriate amount of panic into his voice—they are going to die, after all.

Shortly after, the cacophony of noise and activity in their small space seems to register, and the other man's eyes finally slide back into focus. With impeccable timing, the program activates the lightbulb above their heads and soon they're bathed in its flashing luminance. The bulb is green, naturally.

Ed can practically see the gears turn in Oswald's head as he pieces together the situation, though he wouldn't have predicted the other man's knee jerk reaction. Oswald begins to laugh, uncontrolled and almost manic, his chest heaving with the effort. Their gazes connect and Ed's feels his pretense melt away into wry amusement. This man is certainly a mystery.

There's no attempt whatsoever at redirecting their path, or even scrambling for some kind of shelter from their imminent threat; Oswald just carries on. After a few beats of nothing but the other man's empty laughter and the blare of the alarm, Ed begins to doubt his plan's efficacy. But before he can dwell on his shortcoming, Oswald is upon him, locking their lips together in a searing kiss and gripping him by the arms like a man dying—well, it's as accurate a description as any.

Ed feels Oswald's desire burn through every inch of him, his skin burning beneath the other man's insistent fingers, and introduces his tongue in turn, needing something of his to permeate the other man's being as well. Oswald is all lips and tongue and hands and heat, and it's fantastically exhilarating, not to mention validating. Seconds, minutes, moments from death, and the last thing Oswald chooses to do is kiss him senseless, to bruise his lips with his own, cover Ed's body with his, and pull his hair like he was born to do it.

Too soon for Ed's tastes, the program reaches its climax. The alarm is suspended in a single long wail and the flickering of the lightbulb gives way to an ominous bath of green light. By design, everything grinds to a halt. He hadn't written anything past this, there's nothing else—

All of the fanfare around them comes to an abrupt stop and Oswald freezes mere inches from Ed's face. The seconds pass like hours, and they remain locked in their compromising position all the while, Ed fitted like a puzzle piece underneath Oswald's warm body with his fingers clawed into the back of the other man's suit jacket.

Oswald's eyes are wide with surprise and confusion and he releases Ed's hair as an afterthought, blinking owlishly. It seems to occur to him where he is and he slowly slides out of Ed's grip, seating himself back on his own chair. When he speaks, Ed can't keep his eyes off of his lips, wet and swollen and sinfully red. "I'm not...you...we're alive? What happened?"

"If I've managed to convince you, I've succeeded. Once my methods are revealed, I can't be repeated. What am I?" At Oswald's blank stare, Ed quickly answers the riddle. "An illusion. It's not real, we weren't in any actual danger," he admits.

The words are barely out of his mouth before Oswald completely transforms, all teeth and spittle. "That was a dirty trick, Edward Nygma!" he shrieks, jabbing an accusing finger into Ed's chest. "What on earth possessed you to do that to me?!"

"I needed to know what you felt for me—" He's momentarily interrupted by the animalistic screech that escapes Oswald's lips. "—and the only way I could achieve that was to make you believe we were approaching death. A dying man is an honest man."

The explanation has the opposite effect of quelling Oswald's rage. "'The only way'," he mimics sardonically. "I can think of a number of other ways that don't involve humiliating me like that. What does it matter to you, anyway, what do you get out of it? I don't understand what it is we're doing here, Ed. You drug me without explanation, you kiss me like some kind of experiment, you tell me you don't love me, you pull a horrible trick on me—to what end? Help me to understand so that I don't have to _gut you like a fish_."

"I have..." Ed searches for the correct words. "I've been trying to reconcile some thoughts I've been having. About you. About us. I'd hoped that our time together here since you've woken would provide a little more illumination as well."

His choice of words are not well received. "You're in that big head of yours, silently willing me to understand your deeper meanings—but guess what, Ed, I have no clue what you want from me!" The inside of the submarine is too small for the amount of vitriol Oswald spews. "You talk to yourself, are you aware of that? As if there's still another you hovering over your shoulder, you say things out loud and I haven't said a word about it because it's none of my business. But when it comes to communicating with me, you're suddenly mute. Absolutely impossible."

Ed's silence only spurs Oswald on. "Tell me, Ed, tell me why I'm here, why you kissed me, why you tricked me into kissing you. What is it that you want?"

" _I want you, Oswald_." The words burst from him before he can stop them, and Ed is shaken by how much he means them. 

But Oswald won't let him off that easily. "So _what_?" he sneers. "It's cruel of you to expect me to accept those words when you've just made your regard for me abundantly clear. I can stand being your friend, I can even revert back to being your enemy if that's what needs to happen, but what I won't put up with is you playing with my heart. Don't dare tell me you 'want me' when you don't love me."

Not for the first time in his life, or even that day, Ed is frustrated with his inability to express himself. Riddles and memorized facts had been his crutch for so long, allowing him to speak at length without really saying anything, but he doubts either tactic will be well received at the moment.

"You and I haven't _talked_ in years, Oswald," Ed finally decides on, trying not to sound as small as he feels. "Not since you were mayor. When we finally stopped trying to kill each other, we kept all conversation perfectly superficial, which was probably the safest route considering our history. But it means you haven't apologized to me—" He ignores Oswald's indignant sputter, "—nor I to you. I haven't expressed the very real gratitude I feel for everything you've done for me, and you haven't breathed a single word about the...feelings you once had for me. You and I just don't say things like that, important things. 

"So when you walked away from me this morning, I couldn't come up with the words to change your mind. I...didn't know how to ask you to stay. I acted on impulse with the dart and it wasn't until I had you inside the submarine that I had to think about why I did it. You leaving was unacceptable, but I couldn't make sense of it at first.

"By the time you woke up, I had a theory, but again I couldn't ask you. So I kissed you to see if it would would corroborate my findings." Out loud, it sounds incredibly foolish, but Ed forces himself to power through. "And I learned that, well, it did. It worked." It's as close to a confession as he can manage.

Oswald gazes at him with a much milder expression now, his ire allayed. "What was your theory, Ed?" Ed doesn't presume to detect the faintest hint of hope in the other man's voice.

But, he'd heard it, and it pains him. He stares down at his hands, unable to meet the other man's eyes. He doesn't respond to Oswald's question, needing to explain further. "When I kissed you the second time, and everything felt so right, I realized something less...satisfactory. I was selfish today, Oswald, I know that now. I meant what I said; I can't let you go, not after everything we've been through.

"But it wasn't right of me to force you down here with me when you were so dead set on fighting for Gotham. I'd said it myself years ago to attack you, the gravity of putting someone else's needs and happiness before your own. I failed to do that today, I chose _my needs_ over yours and that's why you're here right now. My theory was wrong, and I...I'm sorry."

Ed dares to glance up at Oswald and finds the other man regarding him with a look of utter wonder. "Is...that it?" he asks rather lamely. "This is all very underwhelming."

"What do you mean?" Ed shoots back, almost cross. It's not the response he was expecting.

"You squirreled me away down here because you didn't want me to die, you didn't want me to die because you wanted me to stay with you, you wanted me to stay with you because you love me—don't you dare look away, Edward—but you can't possibly love me because you 'selfishly' didn't allow me to walk into a firefight against the US Army. Am I correct on all counts?" Oswald's gaze is expectant with the slightest bit of affection at the edges.

Ed frowns. It's hardly as simple as Oswald is making it out to be, but he's not wrong. He clenches his teeth and dips his chin down in the most miniscule of nods.

Oswald bursts into laughter. "You are an absolute idiot, Ed. Just, completely thick. Words cannot express how baffling it is for me to sit across you and reconcile this _moron_ in front of me with the man who built an _operating submarine_ from the ground up. Really, how can someone with your genius-level intelligence be so obtuse?"

"I am _not_ an idiot, Oswald, stop laughing at me," Ed huffs back.

Chastened, Oswald wipes a tear from his eye and fixes Ed with a gaze so warm he has to look away to hide his sudden blush. Tutting, Oswald touches his cheek and guides his face back. It's a tender gesture, and Ed doesn't understand it.

"You, Edward Nygma, are so in love with me it's sickening." Oswald says it without any ego. "This is some tooth-decaying level of sweetness, you dumb, darling man."

"I'm not...you heard me, Oswald, I took Gotham from you! Remember the whole blood and concrete thing?"

Oswald rolls his eyes, but it's half-hearted, sad almost. "I am devoted to this city, yes, but that's because it is the only thing I allowed myself to hold dear. It was my only guarantee. You, Ed, were another story. I...didn't dare assume that your feelings toward me were anything more than platonic. Your friendship was too important to me to throw away _for a second time_ because of my affections. I assure you, I had a handle on it.

"But I refuse to die in a world where Ed Nygma might want to give me, _us_ , a chance. That's not an opportunity I'm going to waste—hell, it's an opportunity I've killed for, but we both know that didn't end well. If stabbing me with a dart and trapping me in a submarine is what it takes to force some revelation through your incredibly thick skull, you utter imbecile, then so be it.

"You haven't taken anything from me that I wasn't already prepared to give. So now I need something from you. Ed, please help me believe that all of this wasn't for nothing. Tell me you love me."

Oswald's earnest stare strips Ed bare but he doesn't have the strength to look away. Every part of his brain is screaming to flee, to dismiss the other man and throw up his walls once more. But something deeper inside of him is stirring, warm and full, and he fights to embrace it. "Oswald." His voice is much gruffer than he intends.

Ed struggles to continue, but Oswald's bright eyes are his beacon, guiding him forward. He trusts the man behind those blue-green irises and more so the mind behind the man, the mind that so cleverly pieced together Ed's chaos and encapsulated it all into one simple conclusion. "Oswald, I love you."

Oswald's mouth stretches into a wide smile as he leans forward to gently hold Ed's face in his hands. Foreheads nearly touching, he gazes tenderly at him before dipping in for a short kiss. "Edward," he murmurs, kissing him again, then a third time, "I love you, too." He kisses him a final time, soft and beautiful, before pulling away. There's playfulness in his eyes and a small smirk on his lips when he parts. "Even if you are a colossal idiot."

Ed's heart flutters with joy. "That's not going to become a thing, is it?" he deadpans in turn.

Oswald considers it thoughtfully. "You'll need to do something significant to prove otherwise, Ed. And you've already built a submarine, so your next project will somehow have to surpass that."

Ed allows a bark of laughter to escape his lips, already comfortable with the easy banter that's managed to mellow their moods. He feels _light_ for the first time in a long time.

"No I mean it Ed," Oswald continues, "I'm expecting something fantastic out of you, especially once we reach the mainland. Just imagine what you'd be capable of with actual working electricity and resources that aren't scrounged from the junkyard. I daresay you might even accomplish time travel."

Ed stills, realizing belatedly that he hadn't been completely forthcoming with Oswald about their underwater voyage. Truthfully, he'd spent so much time agonizing in self-reflection that he hadn't managed to make it very far. He spares a glance at the navigation system, takes note of their dead reckoning position, and concludes that they are still in the bay, nowhere near the mainland. 

Ed has two options: 1) he can set course and get them to their destination within sixty minutes, and they can start their lives together in a new place with more money than they'd know what to do with, or 2) he can have them back at the pier within minutes and return to his dearest friend, and love, the opportunity to defend his city.

The choice is simple, really, and Ed loathes it. Gotham is a cesspit, but love is sacrifice. With a sigh, he takes Oswald's hands in his and looks him very seriously in the eye. "Oswald, you and I are not going to the mainland. Gotham needs its king."

Oswald's eyes widen at the implication but he shakes his head. "Ed, I appreciate you offering this," he says carefully, "but that's not important to me anymore. I have you, and that will always be more than enough for me."

Ed thumbs the soft leather of Oswald's fingerless gloves, smiling softly at him. "Of course it's important. We could escape Gotham, but then what? Stand on the shores of the mainland and watch the army burn it to the ground? Then watch tasteless industrialists and vapid politicians rebuild it? I want to do this for you—I want to do this _with you_."

Oswald's gaze is fierce, searching Ed's face for any trace of hesitation. Finding none, his eyes grow teary. "You mean it, you ingenious man," he breathes out in astonishment. "You're willing to go back and fight this futile battle with me."

"I would do anything for you," Ed echoes, and this time he feels the weight of his words deep in his heart.

In a flurry of limbs Oswald is back in Ed's lap, nearly barreling him off the stool, and smothering him with salty kisses. Smiling into Oswald's flighty lips, Ed reaches up to wipe the tears from his cheeks and kisses him back for all he's worth.

When they finally part, Ed knows for a fact the right decision has been made. He flashes Oswald with a million-watt smile and the other man returns it with equal fervor. "Now—shall we get to work?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for soldiering through with me on my first foray into the Gotham fandom. Every comment, bookmark, kudos and hit has given me such joy and I'm going to go sob happy tears in a corner for some unknown amount of time.
> 
> I should mention I'm tinkering on a battle for Gotham epilogue just to secure a happy ending for our two favorite idiots, but as it stands, this is as complete as it can be for now. I wouldn't blame you for subscribing to this, though, not at all. BYE.


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